


It's All Fun and Games Until...

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fire sale, John and Matt promise to stay in touch -- a promise that neither man keeps, even though memories of each other are keeping them up nights. But when Matt witnesses a violent crime, his safest option is to stay with McClane until the perpetrator is caught. This could be great for both of them... or it could be another of John McClane's Very Bad Ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Fun and Games Until...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's Sexy_Right Mini Big Bang Challenge.  
> Based on a series of prompts by the fabulous persnickett, all of which are used as chapter titles

Prologue

The best thing about being a cop – especially a cop who happens to get caught up in a lot of bad shit on a semi-regular basis – is that the body knows how to adapt. John is able to keep moving, running, fighting, and snarking for almost 48 hours on nothing more than a handful of jelly beans and a putrid cup of 7-Eleven coffee that makes the precinct swill taste like pure ambrosia. When the last shot has been fired and the cavalry has arrived – too late, as always -- he closes his eyes briefly and breathes in the scent of his daughter, warm and safe and alive in his arms. Then he lets one of the feds help him to his feet, stifles a groan and straightens his back. He’s alert when the paramedic checks his wounds and bandages him up, gives a statement to the cops at the scene, speaks to Bowman, even checks on the kid. And even when the adrenaline rush is over and he’s on the way to the hospital with Lucy nestling against him, eyelids at half-mast, he still feels pretty damned fucking fine, except for the throbbing ache of his shoulder and the nagging tickle of a headache at the base of his skull.

He always forgets that when he comes down, he comes down hard.

 

I

 _… he wakes up in a sweat with his dick rock hard and that hacker kid’s name on his lips._

 

“Aaah, my heart’s breakin’ for ya, Berlucci,” John drawls into the receiver. “Now get off your fucking ass and get me the transcript before I come down there and... Yeah, I thought so.”

“Still usin’ that Irish charm to win friends and influence people, I see,” Joe says from somewhere in the vicinity of the water cooler.

John makes sure to replace the receiver gently in its cradle before turning to scowl at Lambert. “When did I become a goddamn fucking bureaucratic desk jockey, Joe?”

“Gee, I dunno, John. When you took your fifth bullet? Or was that your sixth?” He glances around the room, finds Kowalski hovering over the fax machine. “Connie?”

“Sixth,” Connie calls out without raising her head.

“Jesus,” John mutters.

“Give me a fucking break, McClane,” Hershkowitz says. “Anybody else? Four months getting splinters in their ass, minimum. You? Six weeks and you’re gonna be back on the street.”

“Yeah, what’d ya do, John?” Joe asks. “Blow Scalvino under his desk?”

“Nah, he was busy with your mother,” John shoots back before pushing absently at the folders littering the scarred tabletop in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to ignore the pounding in his temples, sure that if he has to spend another minute going through surveillance reports he isn’t going to be responsible for his actions. And he doesn’t have minutes, he has days left. _Days_.

“Three more days,” he mutters.

“Poor baby,” Joe says drily.

“The empathy just rolls off you in waves, you know that, Joe?”

“Jesus, McClane, you’re acting like sitting on your ass for a few weeks is worse than water torture, “ Hershkowitz puts in.

“You know what you gotta do to make sure this doesn’t happen again, right?”

John sighs. Kowalski has a flimsy piece of fax paper fluttering in one hand, but the other is perched primly on her hip, her head cocked and a no-nonsense expression on her face. He has a sudden flashback to Holly standing just that way, the first time that she lectured him about What Married Men Don’t Do – leave the toilet seat up, or drink OJ straight from the carton, or some other rule that he had to commit to memory in order to live in relative happiness with a woman – at least, that particular woman. He never did too well with those rules, but Holly put up with him anyway. Until the time came when she didn’t.

“Well?”

“No, Connie,” he says slowly, “but I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“The next time you’re out there saving the world and you get the bright idea to shoot yourself to stop the bad guy? Remember my advice. Don’t.”

“Yeah, okay,” John says. It was easier to agree with her, with all of them; easier to pretend that in retrospect his plan had been a bad idea. But it was impossible to forget watching his baby girl crying and struggling in the arms of some thug, trying to get free while he fought just to stay conscious. Matt had been doing his best to appease Gabriel, trying to convince the bastard to leave them alive once he had his money, but John knew from the moment he met Gabriel’s eyes over the computer connection in Freddie’s basement that there would be no turning back from this. Gabriel meant to kill the kid and then to kill his Lucy, and he’d shoot himself a dozen times before he’d let that happen. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“Yeah, okay,” Connie repeats emphatically. “You listen to me, John.”

“Don’t I always, sweetheart?”

Connie snorts, eyes him shrewdly before glancing down at the fax in her hand and then up at the clock. She tosses the fax in the general direction of her desk before reaching for her purse.

Hershkowitz’s bushy eyebrows crawl up his forehead. “Haven’t you been waiting for that all day, Connie?”

“Yeah, and if I don’t get home before eight at least once this week, Frank’s gonna have my head on a platter,” Connie says. “It’ll wait.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna head out too,” Joe says. “Marion’s got an early dinner with her book club tonight, and after she spends an evening discussing the existential angst of Dostoyevsky I _always_ get lucky.”

“Getting lucky,” Hershkowitz says dreamily. “I remember getting lucky.”

“When’s the baby due again, Hershey?”

“September third,” Hershkowitz says. “Three more weeks.”

“Labour Day?” Joe says. “That’s a holiday, Hersh. Keep John far away from the hospital.” He quirks an eyebrow at McClane. “Maybe we should send you out of town, John, just to be safe.”

“Funny,” John grunts.

“And hey,” Connie puts in, “if you’re talking three weeks until you can have sex? Think again, lover boy. She ain’t gonna want you near her for at least another six after that.”

John smiles at Hershkowitz’s groan, lifts a hand as his friends walk out the door, then hunches his shoulders and buries his head in the paperwork.

When John comes up for air sometime later, he blinks in the dimness. The sun has long gone down and the battered lamp on his desk is a dismal spotlight in a sea of gloom; the rumbling of his stomach reminds him that the corned beef from Mendi’s that he’d inhaled for lunch had been a long fucking time ago. It only takes him a few minutes to lock everything up and flick off the light, plunging the room into true darkness. In the halls outside the cramped space allocated to the JTTF he can hear distant voices raised in animated discussion, laughter, an incessantly ringing phone. But here, there is nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the muted hum from the oversized clock on the wall, counting down the seconds. The minutes. The hours of a solitary life.

John shakes his head, shrugs into his jacket and heads for the door.

There’s a hungry man dinner in the freezer with his name on it.

* * *

The fried chicken sits heavily in his gut two hours later.

John flicks through the channels on television. He hesitates briefly over the broadcast of a Canadian curling championship on ESPN2, but he’s not _that_ desperate for sports. He finally lands on a John Wayne film, one of the classics, good guys in white hats and bad guys in black and none of that fucking grey area muddling things up. He’s just settled in to enjoy it when his cell rings, and he digs it out of his pocket and answers without looking at the display.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Luce. Why is it that studios have to ruin movies with this colourization bullshit?”

“You’re watching Turner Classics again, aren’t you?” Lucy sighs. He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “You know, when you upgraded to digital it was so you could, you know, move into the twenty-first century? Dad, you have _HBO_.”

“Uh huh,” John agrees. The last time he flicked through to _that_ channel all he saw was some bullshit show where the fucking mob were somehow portrayed as the _heroes_ , and he’s still got the bad taste in his mouth weeks later. “And you’re welcome to watch it whenever you come over.”

“Yeah, about that.”

John leans back on the lumpy sofa, closes his eyes.

“I think I’m going to have to cancel this weekend. I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m just really busy and--”

“It’s okay, Lucy.”

“—I totally didn’t expect summer semester to kick my ass like this, but—“

“Lucy? Honey, it’s okay. You do what you need to do.”

There’s a moment of silence before she sighs audibly into the phone. “Thanks, Dad. And I’ll make it up to you. I’ll stop by next week. Or the week after.”

He should probably think it’s odd, but the first two weeks after shooting himself in the shoulder where probably the best weeks John had all year. Lucy had practically camped out in a chair in his hospital room, had spent the first three days with him when he was released, called and stopped by regularly when he was allowed back on restricted duty. And now… now things were slowly returning to the way they used to be. Lucy has a life that for a long time didn’t include a mostly-absent father, and he can’t expect her to drop everything to include him now. He knows he should be happy for the part of her he’s got.

“No problem, Luce,” he says into the phone.

And after they say their good-byes, he starts to slide the phone onto the TV tray at the end of the sofa, then stops and brings it back to his chest. He scrolls past the names of a dozen co-workers and another dozen local and federal agencies before he stops next to a single name.

 _Matt._

He hesitates with his finger over the button. They’d exchanged numbers at the hospital, along with promises to get together for a beer, to shoot the shit and compare war wounds. And he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about calling Matt before this. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about the kid in general: about that quick brain of his, about that motormouth that was enough to drive him crazy, about the way he _listened_ when John found himself surprisingly telling some punkass hacker half his age things he had never even hinted at to another living soul.

And he finds himself thinking about… other things.

He knows he’s deluding himself.

The kid is probably out with his friends, regaling them with stories of his heroics over the fourth of July. Or he’s “getting lucky”, as Hershkowitz would say, with some pretty young thing in a short skirt with legs up to here who swoons over those wide expressive eyes and has a thing for a shaggy-dog haircut. The last thing Matt Farrell is looking for is a night tossing back cold ones in the company of a fifty-something cop with bad knees and the scars that illustrate the kind of life he’s led.

Sure, he wants to see Matt. Wants to… more-than-see Matt.

But John is old enough to realize that The Stones were right. We can’t always get what we want.

He flips the lid closed on the cell phone with a decisive snap. Closes his eyes.

When he wakes up with a start two hours later, it’s with a rock hard dick and Matt’s name on his lips. He swipes a shaking hand across his brow, sits up straighter and resolves to ignore the tent in his chinos that’s impossible to deny. Resolves to ignore the dream too, most of which is fading anyway. All he can remember is trailing his hand roughly down Matt’s chest, surprisingly firm beneath his touch, and the way Matt arched up, lips parted, the way Matt spread his legs so that John could fit between them _just right_ , the way…

Jesus.

John squirms on the sofa and snags up the remote, flicks away from the static on the screen and cruises through the channels. He finds that there’s a second round of curling on, the announcers speaking in hushed tones about rocks and corner guards.

“How bad can it be?” he says out loud, and he’s not sure whether he’s talking about curling or… the other thing.

John shakes his head, grits his teeth and crosses his arms at his chest, settles in to watch.

It’s going to be a long night.

 

II

 _… someone shoots at him. And he calls John McClane._

 

Matt Farrell considers himself one of the good guys.

Okay, so maybe in his misspent youth he boosted a couple of cars, showed up drunk at a couple of school dances, got bounced from a couple of schools. And okay, maybe in his “young adulthood” he ran a few credit card scams. But he made sure to target only those people with Bentleys in their private parking spaces and Armani suits hanging in the closets of their midtown condos, not grannies on a pension or anything. And he did it only because he needed financing for equipment upgrades so he could start doing the security consultant thing for real. It wasn’t like he was spending the money on crack or fur coats or trips to the Caymans.

And okay, _okay_ , so maybe in the back of his mind he was well aware that no legit organization pays out fifty thousand cool ones to break one little code, even one of the complexity that he’d been assigned. Still. That had to go in the “shades of grey” checkbox; it absolutely wasn’t a black hat move.

Okay.

Maybe he isn’t a good guy. But he’s a fair to middling guy. A not-bad guy, for sure.

And he’s been trying hard to be an even better guy. Because he really doesn’t like getting caught in gas explosions or having a gun held to his head or getting shot in the calf, all of which really, really sucked. And because he knows the feds are trying to get past his firewalls to check on him, and even though he also knows they’ll never succeed he still wouldn’t want them to find anything out of order if they did. And because sometimes when he’s lying awake in the darkness of his apartment, strung out after a particularly bad nightmare, he closes his eyes and he can see McClane sitting next to him in the car on the night that his last apartment blew to bits in front of his eyes. He can hear his own voice, high-pitched and terrified, demanding to know why it happened, what _McClane_ had done. And he can hear McClane’s dry voice answering him: _You tell me, kid. You’re the criminal._

He doesn’t know if the look of disappointment in McClane’s eyes was actually there that night or if that’s just something his brain inserts to make the whole thing about eight billion times worse, but it doesn’t matter. Sometimes those memories are worse than the nightmares.

And then there’s the other dreams. The ones where Gabriel is just around the corner, hunting them, and McClane shoves him against the wall to shield him, one strong arm around his chest to hold him in place, and he can feel the heavy weight of John’s erection pushing at his hip. The one where they are prone on the floor, John’s body covering his and one of Gabriel’s henchmen prowling through the room, the need for silence paramount, and John dips his head to nuzzle behind his ear, John’s stubble grazing his neck and raising goose-bumps on his skin, John’s big hand pushing at his T-shirt to gain access to skin and John’s lips trailing down his neck. And he can’t help it, he moans, and John’s head whips up, eyes wide, and then he swoops down, takes his lips to stifle the sound, and—

And Matt wakes up, sweat-soaked and trembling and having made a mess of another pair of sheets. And feeling just slightly pathetic – okay, maybe more than slightly – because he knows he can crave all he wants but there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of his stupid ridiculous dreams ever coming true.

The end result, though, is that he has a renewed interest in staying on the up and up. He intends to keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble.

That plan kind of falls to pieces the moment he walks into the deli and finds a man rifling through the pockets on a dead body.

“Uh,” Matt says.

The man’s head whips up, eyes wide – probably as wide as Matt’s himself – and in the moment of stunned silence Matt is aware of a half dozen things at once, all of which he’ll tell the cops later: that he felt frozen to the spot, one hand still tucked into his messenger bag where he was tucking away his iPod; Mick Jagger wailing something vaguely misogynistic on the portable radio on a high shelf; the oppressive heat outside, even at 2am, and the blast of air conditioning chilling his skin after the muggy walk from his apartment; the smell of pastrami and pickles hanging in the air; the dirty grey cat sitting on the cold cuts counter watching the entire scene with dispassionate interest.

Then the moment breaks, and he only sees the gun in the man’s hand, the way he lifts it and points it at his chest and then Matt is diving to the right, crashing through a display rack filled with kosher cookies, landing hard and sending a spike of pain through his still-healing leg. He hears the crack when the bullet hits the door behind him, the crash of falling glass, the painful thump of his heart beating a tom-tom rhythm against his ribs. He takes in a ragged breath, searches frantically through the pile of crushed almond horseshoes and lemon bars for some kind of weapon, sure that any moment, any second, the gunman is going to round the display case, raise the gun, end his life.

It’s only after he’s been scrabbling through the detritus for what feels like forever but is actually perhaps twenty seconds that he realizes there is no other noise from the shop. He lifts his head, peers cautiously around the corner of a chipped wooden cabinet.

The killer is gone. Only the body remains.

Matt’s hands are shaking when he pulls the cell phone out of his bag and dials 911. He only realizes his knees are shaking too when he slumps down to the floor, huddles in with his arms wrapped around his legs and his back to the counter and his head hanging down, long hair partially obscuring the dead man in the butcher’s apron, the spreading blood and the glazed eyes, frozen in shock and fear.

When he hears the sirens he makes a snap decision, drags his phone out of his bag for the second time and thumbs through the phone book until he finds _McClane_. His thumb hesitates over the button for only a moment, then he’s listening to the ringer, muttering “please answer please answer please answer” under his breath.

“Hello?”

McClane’s voice is clear and sharp despite the lateness of the hour, and all it takes is that one word to bring it all back again, that crazy forty-eight hours that Matt alternately prays to forget and wants to explore in meticulous detail. Because they might have been insane and scary as shit but they’re the only memories of John McClane that he _has_ and as fucked up as it is, he doesn’t think he really wants to lose them.

He lets out a shaky sigh of relief, clutches at the cell in a sweaty palm. “Oh shit, oh thank god. McClane. It’s Matt. Matt Farrell? I… I think I need you.”

* * *

They take him into a small room, the kind with a scuffed wooden table and hardback chairs and a long two-way mirror set into the wall. They call it a conference room instead of an interrogation room, apologize that all the other rooms are occupied, but that doesn’t stop the muscles from jumping under his skin or his leg from jiggling nervously under the table.

“Let’s go through it one more time, if you don’t mind,” Detective Hendrickson says.

“I already—“ Matt stops, takes a sip from the cooling coffee in his mug. “I already told you like a hundred times,” he starts again, nerves frayed, unable to stop the rising tenor of his voice. He leans forward, projects his voice into the out-dated recorder sitting on the table. “I’d been working late on some programming. I decided to take a break and get a sandwich. When I walked in, some guy was leaning over the old man and there was blood… everywhere. He fired, I ducked, he ran. End of story, man.”

“And the man looked like?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t get a good look at him! Look, I can describe every fucking facet of that gun—“

“There’s no need for profanity, Mr. Farrell.”

“Actually there is a need for profanity, Detective. After what I saw tonight, there should be profanity out the fucking yin yang, okay? So don’t fucking lecture me about fucking profanity, because—“

“ _Mister_ Farrell.”

Matt belatedly remembers that this is a police station and that Hendrickson is a cop, and that he’s in an interrogation room despite what they say, and he clamps down on his traitorous tongue. Even though keeping him here is complete bullshit, even though he doesn’t know shit about that deli or why the owner got ganked or who the killer is, even though he should be able to say whatever the fuck he wants… he _does_ know cops. And he knows that _this_ cop only needs one fucking excuse to take him down to lockup and hold him for forty-eight hours for ‘suspicion’. In Matt’s experience, they don’t ever say for suspicion of _what_.

Matt swipes a hand through his tangled hair, blows out a breath. “Okay,” he says. “Look, I get it, okay? Back in July I got caught up in something that was waaaaay bigger than anybody expected, just because I wrote one little bit of code, and now you think that maybe the same thing is happening again. But man, I am telling you, that is not what is happening here! I just wanted a fu… a damn sandwich. That’s it, dude. Officer. _Detective_.” He shakes his head, leans back in the chair. “That’s it. I was _hungry_.”

“What exactly are you working on, Mr. Farrell?”

Matt blinks. “Are you kidding me? You think I didn’t learn my lesson? Look, I just… can I make a phone call?”

“You’re not under arrest, Mr. Farrell. As you keep telling me, you’re just the witness here.”

Hendrickson flattens both palms on the desk, looming into his space, and when his suit jacket dips open Matt is acutely aware of the gun at his waist. And that despite Hendrickson’s propensity for polyester and the start of a beer gut protruding over his belt, Hendrickson actually has training in how to use it, unlike, for example, just having a gun basically fall in your lap with the safety already off while you’re cowering behind a barrel and being really fucking lucky that you managed to hit the bad guy with two of the five bullets you fired.

Matt’s mouth is suddenly very, very dry. “I… yeah, that’s what I keep—“

“In fact,” Hendrickson continues, “you can leave if you want to.”

“I… okay? I can…? Right.” He is half out of his chair, already pulling the strap of his messenger bag across his chest when Hendrickson speaks again.

“But I wouldn’t if I were you,” Hendrickson finishes softly.

Matt deflates back into the chair, closes his eyes. Fucking cops.

“Why would you say that, Derek?”

The voice is familiar, the one he keeps hearing in both dreams and nightmares both, but Matt still starts, his arm brushing against the styrofoam cup of coffee as he swings toward the opening door. He makes a hasty grab for the cup, succeeds in saving it before turning wide eyes up to McClane lounging against the doorjamb as if he’s owns the place.

Matt feels his dick twitch against his zipper and a part of him marvels that McClane can do this to him now, when he’s being fucking _interrogated_ , just by walking into the damned cop-shop. It either means McClane is just that hot or it’s been entirely too long since he’s gotten laid. And even though he has to cast his mind back to freshman year of college for the latter, just before he dropped out – Jeff McLaughlin in the backseat of a cramped Volkswagen Golf, and even though it was just mutual handjobs it still totally counts – he still thinks it’s the hotness factor. When John steps fully into the room and leans forward to press a warm palm companionably on Matt’s shoulder, exposing the gun in its snug shoulder holster and the crisp white T stretched tightly over his torso beneath the leather jacket, Matt’s pretty sure his heart rate rackets up an extra thirty beats a minute and the swelling in his jeans definitely gets more pronounced.

Yeah, it’s definitely the hotness factor.

“McClane,” Hendrickson clips out. “I don’t recall inviting you to the party.”

“Guess my invitation got lost in the mail,” John says drily. He squeezes Matt’s shoulder briefly before letting go, steps back to arch a brow in his direction. “What’d you get yourself into this time, kid?”

Matt shakes his head. “I swear, McClane, I swear on my mother’s life I had nothing to do with—“

“Relax, kid. You already told me.”

Matt barely remembers the phone call; he knows he babbled, which isn’t exactly a surprise, and he remembers that he kept having to squish further and further back against the counter because the pool of blood from the old man kept inching toward his shoes. He doesn’t even remember what McClane said. “They can’t honestly think I have anything to do with this!”

“They don’t,” John says. “Some cops are just dicks.” His eyes flick to Hendrickson, and Matt swears he sees the cop take an aborted half-step back before he even realizes what he’s doing and stops himself, presses his lips together, does his best to stare McClane down. McClane, for his part, looks decidedly unimpressed. “I’m here to escort Mr. Farrell home,” McClane says to Hendrickson. “So if you’ve got everything you need from your _witness_ …”

For a long moment Matt thinks the power-play is totally going to backfire on him. It’s entirely possible that Hendrickson actually outranks McClane or something, and John can puff out his chest and jut his chin and give the evil eye ‘til the cows come home and it’ll all be for nought. Then Hendrickson shakes his head in resignation, inclines his chin toward the open door. “McClane,” he says. “A word?”

McClane nods in his direction before stepping out into the hall, and Matt takes that as an indication to stay put. He still twitches in his chair, gulps down the last of his tepid coffee and watches McClane’s profile, tries to read the situation through the set of John’s chin or the way he dips his head to listen. But he’s never been very good at reading people – he can find an error in a java string in record time, but trying to read body language is another thing entirely – so he has no idea what decision has been made when Hendrickson and McClane walk back into the room.

McClane scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Okay, kid,” he says, “you got somewhere safe you can stay?”

“What? Safe… what? I don’t—“

“What Detective McClane means,” Hendrickson says primly, “is that until our preliminary investigation is complete, we’re not sure whether this was just a random point-and-grab that got out of hand, or whether there’s something more to it than that.”

“More to it,” Matt says slowly. “Meaning the old man who runs the deli was… targeted.”

“Meaning the old man was targeted and _you_ saw the killer’s face,” Hendrickson corrects.

“Shit,” Matt breathes out.

“It was probably just a punk looking to score some quick cash for a hit,” McClane reassures him. McClane was right about a lot of stuff on their cross-country road trip, and he’s got that same tone in his voice now, the one that makes Matt believe him. Want to believe him. But just like the fourth of July, he’s still scared kind of shitless.

“So,” McClane continues, “ya got a safe place?”

Matt mentally cycles through his contacts in the immediate area, all of whom he’s never actually met face to face. “No,” he says glumly.

“We can hold you here overnight, maybe for a couple of days. Keep you out of reach of the perpetrator,” Hendrickson says, and Matt’s pretty sure he feels the blood drain entirely from his face and pool somewhere in the soles of his shoes.

And McClane must see the look on his face, because he smoothes a hand over his scalp and sighs. “Or you stay with me, kid.”

“I… thanks! I can?”

“Yes, Matthew, you can,” John says. “I might have to get in a supply of duct tape for your mouth so I can get a moments fucking peace and quiet, but yes. You can.”

 

III

 _… someone remembers why this is a very bad idea._

 

“Get in,” John says when Matt hesitates at the door, and even though this time his gun is safely holstered and the sun is up and there’s no cirque de soleil freaks firing at them from the nearest rooftop, he still has the weirdest sense of déjà vu. It’s only when he pulls out onto Centre and nobody actually swings down from a neighbouring rooftop to attack them that he is finally able to relax. He eyes Matt, sitting upright and still in the passenger seat. His gaze flicks down to Matt’s hands, long fingers wrapped tightly around the strap on his messenger bag, and wonders if Matt senses it too, this odd sensation of time doubling back to the fourth.

“You okay, kid?”

“What?” Matt says. “Yeah, just… thinking.” He shakes his head, pulls his gaze away from the passenger window to cock his head at John. “You don’t really think that guy targeted the deli, do you? I mean, seriously, I’ve been in there like a dozen times in the past month and that old guy is the most harmless guy on the planet.”

“People might look at you and think you’re the most harmless guy on the planet,” John says. “Or me.”

“Dude, trust me, nobody is looking at you and thinking you’re _harmless_.”

John considers the rookies who watch him with a mixture of awe and fear, the perps who think twice when he shows up on the scene, the not-so-rookies who jump when he barks out an order. He inclines his head to concede the point. “The thing is,” he continues, “appearances can be deceiving. You could be highly trained in some of that kung fu shit like whatsherface--”

“Mai.”

“—or you could be a sleeper cell agent for the Taliban—“

Matt snorts.

“— _or_ you could be some kind of weirdass hermit computer genius with a knack for getting into shit way over his head,” John finishes.

“Wow,” Matt says, “I should probably get a different costume if people aren’t figuring that last one out. Maybe, like, a tie.”

“Hersh in my department is a computer nerd. He wears a tie.”

“If he wears a tie, he’s not a computer nerd. Trust me on this, McClane.”

John merges into the traffic on the bridge before replying. “Point is, ya never know.”

“I guess,” Matt says.

He lets his head fall back against the seat, and when John glances over he can’t help but notice how pale Matt looks, how thin, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions and his eyes dark and solemn. His hand actually twitches to reach across the space that separates them, to smooth down that unruly mop and make him feel better, and he tightens his grip on the wheel instead, focuses on the road and reminds himself that the only reason the kid is even here is because his life might be in danger, because he needs someplace to stay. Not because he _wants_ to be here.

“But do you think he was targeted?” Matt asks.

And there’s the rub. John knows he could have – should have – told Hendrickson that he was being overcautious, that the deli job had virtually nothing in common with the three other shakedown cases he was working. He could have – should have – told Matt he had nothing to worry about and had a uniform escort him home. Out of his life.

John looks across to the passenger seat, takes a breath and meets Matt’s eyes. “No, kid. I think the perp was a junkie who needed a fix, and a 24-hour sandwich shop was just the most convenient target. Nothing more than that.”

He fully expects Matt to at least suggest that if that is the case, he doesn’t need protective custody. He waits for it, knows that when it happens he’ll turn the car around and drive Matt home. They’ll make more promises to meet up for beer and pizza that they won’t keep, and they’ll say goodbye, and the car door will slam shut and that will be that. Game over.

But Matt just looks at him, steady and silent, and then slowly relaxes into the seat.

Okay then, John thinks. Okay.

Matt remains quiet until they make the turn onto Tillary. John should’ve known better than to expect it was going to last.

“Better safe than sorry,” Matt says, “I get it. I’m cool with that. But I still think I should’ve been allowed to go back to my place for some of my shit. I’m working on some really delicate coding, McClane!”

John huffs out a breath. “Jesus, kid. I know we’re all just techno imbeciles to you, but I’m pretty sure the uniform they sent over will understand how to unhook a couple of power cables.”

“You don’t get it! I left everything running, everything! That’s days worth of work, I’m talking actual days, and all he has to do is accidentally hit one key, McClane, one key that results in one misplaced ampersand—“

“Shut up.”

“—or one missing tilde, and that could set me back at least seventy-two hours—“

“Shut. Up.”

“—and the clients don’t pay until the job is done, McClane! That sandwich I was gonna buy? That was with my last twenty bucks, man. I can’t afford any kind of setback right now, and—“

John sighs as he turns onto Chapel. Yeah, this is reminding him more and more of the fourth.

* * *

“So this is the spare room,” John says.

Matt spins in a slow circle before turning back to John with a wide grin. “Wow,” he says, “this is… awesome. You know, I didn’t even know pepto-bismal _was_ a paint colour.”

“It was for Lucy, smartass.”

“Yeah, no, it’s great,” Matt says. The uniform was already waiting at the house with some of Matt’s belongings, and now Matt tosses his duffel bag on the bed. “And the pink flowered bedspread is… something else, McClane. Really. I guess I’ll just embrace my feminine side.”

“Seems like you’re doing that already,” John says. He reaches out to snag at Matt’s hair, even longer now than it was six weeks ago. He means only to give it a playful tug, but he’s surprised at how soft it is, how much he still wants to smooth it back, and something twists in his gut when he realizes that he’s been standing there for too long, too close, long dark strands tangled in his fingers. He quickly reaches up to ruffle the mop before stepping back with a smirk. “Fuckin’ hippie.”

“Yeah? Yeah, I guess,” Matt says, unbothered. He gives a cock-eyed grin, shakes the shaggy bangs back out of his eyes. “Just can’t be bothered to get a trim, you know?” He snorts. “Yeah, look who I’m talking to.”

“I got clippers in the bathroom, we can solve that problem real quick.”

“Hah. Right. Yeah, I don’t think so.”

John shrugs, smoothes a hand over his dome. “It’s liberating, kid,” he says. He drops his hand, gestures toward the hall. “There’s fresh towels in the bathroom, some food in the fridge. Help yourself. I’m gonna call in and let them know that I won’t be in today, then sack out for a couple of hours.”

“Okay,” Matt says. “And hey, McClane?”

John turns with his hand on the doorjamb, arches a brow.

“Maybe it was just your average robbery, but maybe it wasn’t. And you didn’t have to take me in. So I just want to say thanks. I mean, really. Thanks a lot.”

“Yeah, you said that already, kid.”

“No, I know. But. Okay, so maybe I think it’s kind of a big deal, you know. Like nobody’s ever done this before, the things you keep doing for me. And… it matters, you know? So--“ Matt shrugs helplessly.

John can’t seem to stop his lips from quirking, no matter how hard he tries. “Are we gonna have a moment here, kid?”

“What?” Matt splutters. “No. Jeez, McClane.”

“John.”

“What?”

“The name’s John, kid. If you’re gonna be eating my food and sleeping under my roof, you better call me John.”

“Huh. Okay. John.” Matt cocks his head. “And you know, my name’s actually not ‘kid’. Maybe you could call me Matt.”

“Yeah. Whatever you say, kid.”

* * * 

“—I’m talking about the condensed water vapor that’s left behind in the wake of an airplane—“

“Contrails,” John says around a bite of turkey sandwich.

“Contrails, right,” Matt agrees. “And sure, most of the time that’s exactly what they are. But a percentage of the time, McClane, a bigger percentage of the time than anyone likes to admit, they’re actually chemtrails. That’s what I’m telling you here, do you get that? Chemtrails, chemical agents being deliberately released into the atmosphere by the very government that you purport to serve, just so they can control and manipulate the populace!”

John chews his sandwich.

* * *

“Electromagnetic weaponry,” John says drily.

“I know, sounds completely sci-fi, which is exactly why the average person just shrugs it off. But come on, McClane, the official result of the enquiry was that the flight crashed due to an explosion in the fuel tank! That’s like saying sleeping pills make you drowsy. What caused the explosion in the fuel tank?”

John opens his mouth.

“I’ll tell you what caused it,” Matt continues relentlessly. “Secret government testing of a electromagnetic pulse weaponry system.”

John gives up on finding something decent to watch on a Friday afternoon and side-glances Matt instead.

“Oh, right, RIGHT, I know that look. That’s the Matt Farrell is Shitcan Crazy look. But I’m telling you, McClane, I have… there was a report, two dudes at Berkley did a study, of course it was suppressed, ‘they’ said the data was faulty, but I’m telling you, the stuff in that report will curl your hair. If, you know, you had any.” He makes a face. “Okay, you know what, I’m getting it, I have it on my system, hang on.”

John watches Matt bounce up from the sofa and dart to the makeshift desk, the old card table that John used to use for poker nights back before poker meant beer, then too much beer, then scotch, then suspension and sleeping in the same clothes five nights in a row. He admires his energy, but…

“You need to cut down on the sugar intake, kid,” he calls out.

* * *

“Take barcodes, for example. You can’t get away from them. Virtually everything, everything these days is coded. So you grab yourself a bag of doritos at the store, and the dead-eyed clerk scans it, and that information goes directly to the government, McClane. So they know exactly where you are, what you’re doing, what you’re buying, every single minute of every single day.”

“John.”

“Huh?”

John puts down his fork, reaches for a second roll. “You’re supposed to call me John.”

“Jesus, John, are you listening to a fucking word I’m saying?”

“I’m listening. I’m wondering if you ever stop talking.”

“At least I have something to say. I have ideas, man.”

John shakes his head, reaches across the table to ruffle Matt’s hair. “Oh, you have ideas, all right.”

“That’s fine,” Matt pouts as he pulls his head away. “Be dismissive. Again.”

John huffs out a laugh as he smothers his roll with butter. The kid might be a nutcase, but at least he’s passionate.

John likes passionate.

* * *

1:57 a.m.

John blinks at the clock for a moment before laying his head back on the pillow. Rests his folded hands on his stomach. Stares blankly at the ceiling.

He’s no stranger to insomnia, of not being able to get his mind to just shut down for a while to let him rest, but… this is different. Matthew Farrell has only been in his home, sharing his space, for less than twenty-four hours, and already John can’t imagine going back to the way it was before. The silence. The silence is what gets him, the reason why he stays at work as late as possible then watches every sporting event known to mankind when he gets home, every old movie he can find. The oppressive silence beating down on his head until he hunches over from the weight of it.

He thinks he has talked more, listened more, laughed more in the past twenty four hours than he has in the last six months. And for the first time in much longer than that, his house has been more than just brick and mortar.

He wants to keep listening to Matt’s ridiculous conspiracy theories, watching the way his hands flutter in the air as he talks, the way he constantly flips his hair back out of his eyes. Wants to… god, he wants to trap those hands, draw him in, taste him, feel every inch of him.

He presses his lips together, tries to push the thoughts away.

And he finds himself at 2:17 a.m., pushing open the door to the spare room with tented fingers and standing silently in the doorway, watching the easy rise and fall of Matt’s chest. Dark hair splayed on the pillowcase, buried to the nose in the comforter despite the heat of the evening. John sighs, clenches his hands into fists as he turns away.

Yeah. This was a very bad idea.

 

IV

 _… someone pops inappropriate wood while roughhousing with John McClane._

 

To say that Matt isn’t a morning person is about the understatement of the century, unless he counts still being up from the night before, numbers dancing in his head and tongue sugar coated with his fifth or sixth Red Bull. But Matt finds somehow himself wide awake at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning. He cranes his neck, blinks and stares in abstract horror at the giant pink geraniums cavorting on his bedspread and wonders just how drunk he had to get to even think purchasing it was a good idea. And then it all comes back to him. The deli, the murder. McClane.

He lets his head rest back on the pillow, closes his eyes.

McClane. No, _John_. He’s supposed to call him _John_ now.

Weird.

Weirder still, spending all day in the dude’s company and nobody firing semiautomatic weaponry or making things explode or throwing cars at them. Not even once.

And maybe even weirder than that? Spending all day in the dude’s company and getting the very strange idea that maybe McClane didn’t hate it. And okay, Matt admits that he can’t read people, he sucks at reading people, no lie, but McClane actually seemed… happy.

And… well… let’s be honest. McClane seemed _flirty_.

Matt opens his eyes and pushes back the covers, swings his legs over the side of the bed and considers this unconventional idea while staring at his toes. He quickly comes to realize that the idea is preposterous. Exhibit A: McClane was married, for a long fucking time, to a woman. Ergo, McClane is as straight as the day is long. Exhibit B: Matt himself is only a few years older than McClane’s daughter, so even if McClane was as queer as a three dollar bill, he wouldn’t be interested in someone like him. Exhibit C: McClane calls him _kid_. See Exhibit B. And Exhibit D: even if for some strange reason Exhibits A through C ceased to exist, McClane had his number for weeks – weeks – and never called to talk to him. If that doesn’t say not interested, Matt doesn’t know what does.

Matt himself made many calls. He has the task force line memorized, and he can identify all of McClane fellow cops on the phone before they even announce their names. Kowalski always sounds rushed, Lambert like he’s in the middle of a facial and you’re interrupting his cucumber mask. He always pictures Hershkowitz as one of those cartoon braying donkeys.

Just because he always ended up hyperventilating and hanging up and diving for his inhaler before he actually SAID anything during these phone calls doesn’t matter. He made the calls. And he’s definitely way more than interested.

And exhibits be damned, none of that explains the way McClane keeps touching him. Ruffling his hair as he passes by his desk, leaning across the table to put a hand on his arm to get his attention, brushing against him when they both try to manoeuvre around in the kitchen. None of that explains the way McClane looks at him, eyes hooded and dark, like a cat who’s found the cream. None of that explains the shiver Matt gets in his spine from that look, from the things that look seems to say before John smirks or looks away and leaves Matt wondering if he imagined the whole thing.

Which, he realizes now, he did. He must have. Because Exhibits A through C do exist, and there’s absolutely no way a fifty-something formerly married supercop could possibly be interested in a skinny twenty-something ex-hacker who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. McClane is being friendly, and that’s all there is to it. And if John brushes against him, is always up in his personal space? Well, it’s a small house. He’s got to stop reading into things that aren’t there just because he wishes they were.

In the shower, Matt makes a mental promise to stop fooling himself. McClane doesn’t want him. End of story.

* * *

He does a good job of it for most of the day. He has his head buried in a complex line of code when McClane stumbles out of bed a little after ten, gets only a grunt that sounds vaguely like ‘coffee’ in response to his ‘good morning.’ He works until the early afternoon, the only sounds in the house the clicking of the keyboard and the occasional whisper of newsprint as John turns a page in the paper. He lets himself glance up occasionally, because McClane in faded jeans and a black t-shirt is easy on the eyes, and he might have promised to be realistic but he’s not a fucking monk. At some point a cup of coffee shows up at his elbow, and he murmurs a quick thanks and then lets it go cold while he tangles with an error. Shortly after 2 p.m. he decides to take a break with a little Tomb Raider.

That’s when the problems begin.

He’s midway through the centaur battle outside the tomb when John wanders into his peripheral vision, lines creasing his forehead and the phone pressed firmly to his ear. Something about the look on his face makes Matt reach out and quickly hit the pause button.

“What?” he says. “McClane – John – what is it?”

McClane thumbs the release button, stares at the cell for a second before closing his big fist over the screen. “That was Hendrickson,” he says.

Matt’s stomach clenches. He swings around in his chair, faces McClane head on.

“It looks like you’re stuck here for a few more days, kid.”

“Why? Oh shit, the old man was targeted! What is it, McClane, some kind of… is it the Russian mafia? It is, isn’t it? I heard they’re making a comeback and--”

“Jesus, kid, it ain’t the Russian… where the hell do you come up with this stuff?” McClane waves a hand in the air when Matt opens his mouth. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Matt has reams of data on the re-emergence into the New York underworld of more than just the Russians, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut about that. For once. “Okay,” he says, “then if not the Russians—“

“The old man was clean,” McClane says. “Harmless, like you said. But one of the guys working for him pinged something in the system. Probably nothing, but Hendrickson’s gotta check it out before we can give you the all clear.”

“Pinged?” he squeaks. He swallows, because he _has_ hit puberty, thank you very much, but when he speaks again his voice still sounds high-pitched and frantic. “What does that mean, pinged? What kind of pinged?”

McClane glances down at the phone, seems to make a decision. He holds it up so Matt can take a look, and Matt leans over to squint at the tiny photo. Bad resolution, but he can make out the blocky features of some bulky blondzilla with a gap-toothed grin. Matt makes a face.

“Do you know him?” McClane asks.

Matt looks again, but he still comes up blank. “No.”

McClane watches him, shrugs and flips the phone shut, and Matt hears a _cop knows when you’re lying_ as clearly as if John says it aloud. Good thing he’s not lying.

“Guy works the counter on days, does a few deliveries. His name came up on a list of known acquaintances for one of Hendrickson’s suspects in the case he’s working. Take a few days to run it down, make sure there’s no further connection.”

“Shit.”

“Like I said, kid, it’s probably nothing. Just means you’re stuck with me for a couple more days.”

“Yeah, well, not exactly a hardship,” Matt says before he can clamp down on his traitorous tongue. “Uh, I mean,” he continues quickly, “three square meals, bed that’s actually not a futon that I found on the corner waiting for garbage day? Not much to complain about on my end, McCla… John.”

“Uh huh,” McClane says. He presses his lips together but lets it pass, and Matt heaves a mental sigh of relief. He juts his chin toward the computer screen over Matt’s shoulder instead, eyes Lara Croft in mid roundhouse kick. “That your idea of a work out?”

Matt glances back at the screen. “Hey, don’t knock it. I’m good at this.”

“That ain’t fighting, kid.”

Matt snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, well, I don’t know if you’ve actually looked at me, McClane—“

“Oh,” John says, “I’ve looked.”

Matt blinks. Because he absolutely could not have heard… that absolutely could not have meant… no. He swallows around a suddenly dry throat. “Uh. Yeah, well then you should be pretty aware that this body isn’t exactly made for street brawls.”

“Fighting isn’t about bulk, kid,” McClane says. “It’s about training, stance. And if you don’t have the body weight behind you, it’s about using your opponent’s body weight against him.” McClane tugs on his arm. “Here. I’ll show ya. Get up.”

“What? No, I’m—“

“Get up, kid.”

“No, really, you can’t be serious. My leg!”

McClane’s glance flicks down to his calf, dismisses it with a wave of one meaty hand. “Fuckin’ flesh wound,” he says. “S’fine. C’mon.”

“Fine?” Okay, Matt has to admit that the bullet wound is healing up nicely. He doesn’t even really feel it anymore, but. Still. “I was shot, McClane. At close range!”

John snorts. “You were grazed. _I_ was shot.”

“But—“

“Twice.”

“Okay, yes,” Matt says, “but—“

“Right, so move it,” John says. He claps his hands together once, sharply, and Matt jerks a little in his chair. “Neither of us is gettin’ any younger, kid, especially me. Up and at ‘im.”

“Okay, seriously, McClane—“

“John.”

Matt sighs. “Seriously, John, I’m not going to fight y… okay, apparently I AM going to fight you,” Matt says as McClane shakes his head and unceremoniously hauls him out of his seat. “And this, here, McClane, JOHN. See this way you’re just manhandling me? THAT is why I can’t… okay, what are you doing?”

“The first thing you gotta learn is how to take a fall,” McClane says, manouevring him into position.

Matt drags his feet as McClane pulls him by his T-shirt into the centre of the room. “This is so stupid.” When McClane shoots him a look, he reluctantly relents. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll try.”

“Do, or do not. There is no try,” McClane says with a grin.

“Wow, you really are a Star Wars guy,” Matt says drily. “Okay, what are you— _oof_!”

“That’s how you take a fall, kid.”

From his newly prone position on the floor, Matt thinks McClane looks bigger and bulkier than ever. And hotter. His gaze skims over McClane’s calves to his thighs, skims over the bulge at his groin quickly before coasting across the black T stretched across his torso to his strong jawline, lips curled in a smile, eyes sparkling with amusement. Yeah, definitely hotter.

And he’s also pretty sure that he just broke something. Maybe a rib. “Ow,” he says weakly.

McClane just laughs and holds out a hand to help him up.

It takes fifteen minutes of hugging the carpet before McClane grunts and pronounces him “good enough” at falling to move on to going on the attack. By that point Matt is tired and bedraggled and McClane hasn’t yet broken a sweat.

“Okay,” McClane says. “Jump me.”

“Ah maaan,” Matt moans.

“Do you want to learn this or not?”

The answer is, of course, a world of NOT. His arms hurt and his legs hurt and his fucking hair hurts, and there’s no extra ‘life’ button to push to make it all better. But he also realizes that if he’d known even a little bit of this stuff before, maybe Emerson wouldn’t have been able to take him so easy. Maybe he’d have been able to fight back a little.

And. Getting up close and personal with John McClane kind of rules. Their bodies brushing together, muscles tense and straining, John’s big arms wrapping around him as he takes him down. Yeah, that doesn’t suck. So Matt puts his head down and charges, tackles McClane around the waist and pushes as hard as he can. To his shock McClane stumbles back a step, and when McClane tries to sweep his legs out from under him Matt is actually able to sidestep the movement, earning himself a grunt of approval.

“Hah!” He looks up at McClane through sweat-soaked bangs, grins widely. “Thought you had me, huh?”

Which is of course the moment that McClane does indeed have him, executing a complicated move that ends up with Matt flat on his back on the floor and McClane sprawled lightly on top of him. “You were saying, kid?”

Matt gives an experimental push against the hands that are pinning his arms to the carpet, and can’t move them an inch. He does manage to get part of a leg free and does his best to wrap it around John’s calf, then heaves his body upward in what he knows is most likely a useless attempt to dislodge him.

That’s when McClane’s eyes goes wide.

“Oh god,” Matt says. He squints his eyes shut, says a quick and very fervent prayer for a universe to magically open a black hole beneath him. When he opens his eyes a few seconds later, the universe is still in alignment and John is still crouching above him, head cocked appraisingly.

“Uh,” Matt says.

“Succinct,” John says, getting lightly to his feet. “C’mon, get up. I’m tired of takin’ it easy on ya.”

“Uh,” Matt says again, not moving from his position on the floor. “McClane, okay, look—“

“Friction, kid.”

“Wh—what?” Matt says. He makes a move to cover his dick, then aborts the movement when he realizes that that would just draw attention to it. Not that John didn’t already _see_ it, didn’t already _feel_ it hard and solid against his hip and seriously, _seriously_ , why don’t bad guys attack now when he could use the distraction?

John scrubs a hand over his head, smirks down at him from on high. “You rubbing against me, me rubbing against you. Causes friction, Matthew. Don’t sweat it.”

“Friction!” Matt says, seizes on the idea like a life preserver on a sinking boat. “Yes! Right. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” John agrees.

 

V

 _…somebody wakes up with his head in your lap, which is in no fit state to entertain company._

 

By noon on Sunday, John is on his fourth cup of coffee.

His eyelids still feel heavy, his limbs thick and lethargic despite the added boost of the extra caffeine. And when he realizes that he’s spent the last five minutes staring at the back of Matt’s head as he zips away on the computer, he scowls down into his cup like his preoccupation with all things Matthew Farrell is the coffee’s fault.

It’s certainly not Maxwell House’s fault that he was awake half the night, overactive mind reviewing the events of the day, analyzing and overanalyzing every move he made in his impromptu boxing lesson with the kid. Remembering the way Matt had moved against him, untrained body awkward and unsure in the moves but willing to learn, muscles unused to that kind of exertion, a sheen of sweat coating him, the smell of it in the air. Matt’s threadbare T-shirt riding up on the third fall, revealing a thin slice of stomach that made John blink and press his lips together and turn away so that he didn’t do something stupid. Matt’s tongue darting out to flick at his lower lip just before he made his big move and that more than anything else had thrown John off his game, letting Matt briefly get the upper hand before John regained his footing and easily took him down. Remembering the way Matt had looked when he pinned him that final time, hair tousled and damp, eyes hooded and staring back at him guilelessly.

Remembering the press of Matt’s cock, thick and insistent against his thigh.

Remembering the way his own dick had swelled in response.

He should have stopped it well before then.

Now Matt was embarrassed over a straightforward bodily response to close contact, avoiding him the rest of Saturday night and burying himself in coding today. John had lain in bed half the night thinking of the things he should have said – that he’d experienced the same thing himself in his wrestling matches at the academy, that it was normal, common, that it didn’t mean anything – but the words stuck in his throat then and they still did now. Because his own bodily response wasn’t like anything that happened back in college and wasn’t a result of anything as simple as fucking _friction_ , and it sure as hell did mean something.

And if he wasn’t up all night feeling guilty for making the kid feel like an ass, he was up all night feeling guilty about… the other thing. His hard cock pressing against the thin material of his pyjama bottoms, refusing to be ignored, until finally he had to take himself in hand. And he’d tried, he’d really _tried_ to think of anyone else – that new redhead in the cyber division that winks at him whenever he has to stop in for a file, the dark-haired Victoria’s Secret model in the polka-dot bikini, jesus he’d even tried to conjure up Holly for christ sake – but it all came back to Matt, to those long lean limbs and that ridiculous hair and those big green eyes and the way he smiled when you gave him a compliment, like it was worth a million bucks, like maybe he’d never gotten another one in his life. To those long fingers fluttering in the air and over the keyboard and what they would feel like on his skin, restless and teasing and eager. To that taut stomach peeking out from beneath the tattered edges of a ratty old tee and those slim hips and that cock, unseen but imagined, the way it would feel in his hand or between his lips.

He’d touched himself, closed his eyes, thought of Matt. And he’d come panting and breathless and harder than he’d come since.. since he couldn’t remember. A long time.

The sound of the keyboard brings him back to his senses, and he scowls again when he realizes that he’s no longer staring at the dregs of instant coffee in the bottom of his mug but that his eyes have been once again drawn to Matt. He clears his throat and pushes away from the table with a grunt, and when Matt starts at the sound he curses himself inwardly for putting the kid so on edge.

He needs distance. His hand edges toward the cell on the table, until he belatedly remembers that it’s Sunday and Hendrickson’s got three little boys and a full schedule of summer softball. Tomorrow he’ll check in with Hendrickson over lunch, see if any progress has been made on the case. For today, he’ll do his best to stay out of Matt’s hair. He’s been meaning to take apart and start sanding down that old cedar chest for months now, anyway.

“Gonna go..” he says, waves a hand toward the basement.

Matt swivels in his chair. “Go?”

“The basement,” John says. “Got some stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“You gonna repeat every fucking thing I say?”

It comes out harsher than he intended, and Matt blinks. “No. You’ve got stuff. Go do your stuff, John.”

It’s only when he’s halfway down the steep basement steps that John realizes that Matt actually called him by his first name without any prompting.

He wishes he had a fucking clue what that meant.

* * *

Two hours later, John has managed to burn through two drill bits, scrape his knuckles raw, aggravate his still healing shoulder, and nearly decapitate himself with a screwdriver. To say it’s not a good day is a fucking understatement.

He plods slowly up the stairs after a glance at his watch, crosses the living room and stands to the side of Matt’s chair, watches the series of numbers and unidentifiable symbols scroll across the screen under Matt’s direction. Watches Matt’s nimble fingers dance across the keyboard, the frown line appear between his eyes as he hesitates, squints and scowls at the screen. Watches his tongue flicker quickly across his lower lip.

And John can’t help himself. He reaches out, strokes a hand lightly down the back of Matt’s head, smirks a little when Matt jerks in his chair and glances up at him through overgrown bangs. He lets his hand rest on the nape and squeezes gently.

“Blackout,” he says.

“Shit, already?” Matt says. He looks down at his own watch, curses under his breath as he shuffles forward in the seat, begins a shut-down process that has, in the course of a couple of days, become a familiar sight to John.

“Already,” John says. He reluctantly releases his hold on Matt, turns his back on the makeshift computer nook and trudges toward the sofa. His legs feel like blocks of wood, his arms like dead weight, and he slumps rather than sits, closes his eyes and feels old and worn out and tired.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he feels the sofa dip under Matt’s weight.

“Did they say how long, or…?” Matt says. John doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s already gazing longingly back at his computer, restless fingers of his right hand drumming on his thigh.

John reaches out without opening his eyes, traps the jittery fingers under his palm. He wants to tell him that if he watched the news like a fucking normal person, he’d know the exact schedule for the blackouts, be able to plan his day around them. But the fact that Matt isn’t a “normal person” is exactly what attracts him to John the most, and he doesn’t want that to change. “Calm down, kid,” is all he says. “You’ve got two hours.”

“Which means four,” Matt grumbles. He doesn’t make any move to remove his fingers from John’s clutches, though, and John wishes he knew what THAT meant, too. He’d try to figure it out, but he’s too fucking tired. And he knows he should lift his hand away himself, keep things safe and friendly and non-threatening so as to not freak the kid out again, but Matt’s hand feels warm beneath his, comfortable, and he just can’t bring himself to change that.

“Hey,” Matt says. “You’ve got a… thing.”

John reluctantly opens one eye, surprised to discover that while they’ve been sitting there the power has gone off. The game show that had been playing unwatched on the big screen is gone, replaced by a blank black face. The VCR light is dead, and when the power comes back on in two hours (or four) he’ll have to get down on protesting knees and reprogram it again. He squints over at Matt.

Matt waves his left hand toward his neck. “A bruise,” he clarifies.

John lifts a hand to his neck, winces when his fingers brush across the tender flesh. “Screwdriver,” he says.

“Wow,” Matt says. “Okay, I don’t think I want to know. Because that would take some skill, John.”

There’s that unprompted ‘John’ again. John shifts on the sofa, and this time he does remove his hand from Matt’s. He scrapes it across his jaw, grimaces at the stubble, and tries not to look Matt’s way to see if the kid is missing the contact as much as he is. He finds himself looking anyway, and what he sees is too-pale skin accentuating the dark brown smudges under Matt’s eyes, eyes that meet his and then dart nervously away. John presses his lips together and looks away, stares at the blank television screen and lets the fresh wave of guilt wash over him.

Matt is quiet and still beside him. Somewhere down the street he can hear the Kapursky kids playing, the far-off rumble of a gas mower. He leans his head on the back of the sofa, lets his eyes drift shut and the whisper of the Klein’s sprinkler lull him to sleep.

And he dreams.

When he blinks awake sometime later, there’s a crick in his neck and a shaggy haired hacker half-sprawled across his lap.

John carefully twists his head, winces and stares blearily at the television. It takes him a moment to realize that the plus-sized brunette dressed in a giant petunia costume means an old rerun of _Let’s Make A Deal_ , and _Let’s Make A Deal_ means that the power is back on. He shifts in place, tries to get into a comfortable position that doesn’t involve waking up Matt, and fails miserably when Matt grunts and moans, turns his head… and rubs his cheek against John’s erection.

Matt’s eyes blink open quickly, and John stiffens, holds his breath.

Then Matt grins.

“Friction?” he says.

John sighs. “Shut up, kid.”

 

VI

 _… someone gets the brilliant idea to do something stupid like tell the truth._

 

Matt not only strives to be a good guy – okay, a not-bad guy – but he also likes to think of himself as a smart guy.

Okay. He thinks of himself as a supersmart guy. Which probably sounds like his ego is as big as the sun, and if he’s completely honest with himself then, well, it probably is. But at least, he figures, he’s got the juice to back it up. Not many guys get a full ride to MIT. Granted, not many guys hack into the dean’s records just before finals, and sure, maybe his decision to leave MIT was less ‘dropped out’ and more ‘expelled’, but none of that negates the fact that he’s got an IQ that would make Hawking blush and ideas that flash through his brain with the speed of California brushfires.

And he loves logic. He loves the march of numbers across his monitor, loves that the way he manipulates them is all based on immutable rules, laws that must be obeyed (even if sometimes they were the only ones he _did_ obey.) And he can’t make his brain work any other way. So he thought he’d figured the whole thing out: McClane plus marriage plus kids plus cop equals not a chance in hell, no fucking way, check your fantasies at the door, dude is straight straight straight.

Then he’d woken abruptly that afternoon to find John half-hard and straining against his chinos and all those preconceived notions went out the window.

Sure, a part of his brain insisted, John could have been dreaming of Claudia Schiffer naked on his bed and slathered in whipped cream, but…. But. John had held himself still and rigid as soon as Matt’s cheek has brushed against his dick, and John had held his breath and winced, and Matt is the first one to admit that he isn’t any good at reading people, he’s said it a thousand times, but that? That was like skywriting, like a fucking billboard on the interstate. He didn’t have to be good at reading people to know what it meant.

And it threw his entire analysis of John McClane, and John McClane vis-a-vis one Matthew Farrell, out the fucking window. Because it meant – it had to mean – that John actually had an interest. In him.

Holy fuck.

Matt rolls over onto this side and pulls the covers up to his chin, stares at the curtains blowing in the slight breeze, giant red and pink geraniums fluttering lankly in the heavy air. Curtains and bedspread and nauseas pink paint bought for Lucy Gennero, probably back when she was still Lucy McClane, thin and gawky and maybe with glasses that dwarfed her face and tinny braces covering crooked teeth. Bought back when John McClane only had fifteen or twenty years of time on the force instead of thirty, a thinning head of hair instead of a bald pate, three less gunshot wounds and seven fewer scars and Matt knows, he knows all these things should be detriments, items in the con column that should be forming in his head. John is in his 50’s, he’s lived more and seen more than Matt can even imagine despite all the old news reports on McClane he’s dug up on the ‘net in the last six weeks, despite his active imagination. But he keeps putting those things in the pro column, anyway. Because really? Experience counts, man.

And god damn, it’s not only chicks who dig scars.

By the time the old grandfather clock in the hallway strikes three, Matt has come to a decision. He rolls onto his stomach and snuggles into the covers, but it’s still another hour before he manages to get to sleep.

* * *

 

Matt has an entire speech planned, and he’s just opening his mouth to launch his opening salvo when John throws a wrench into the proceedings.

“Gonna stop in and see Hendrickson today,” John says around a mouthful of toast. “See if he’s made any progress in the case. Maybe we can get you back home tonight, kid.”

Matt looks up from his contemplation of soggy corn flakes, stares at John across the table.

“What?” John asks. “You gotta be missing all your stuff. Your… ‘gear’.” He snorts. “Your dolls.”

Matt shakes his head, blinks rapidly and goes back to stirring the soggy mess in his bowl. McClane was fucking weird all weekend – flirty and tactile one minute, abrupt and distant the next, and then there was the whole thing with the… well, the physical response that turned out to be anything but one-sided. Matt spent half the night analyzing every last second of his seventy-two plus hours at Chez McClane, and now this? Now McClane wants to just… get rid of him? Dump him back at his shitty one room apartment and forget about him?

He realizes John is still waiting for a response, lifts his head and tries to remember the last thing that he said. “No, that’s… missing stuff? Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds glum to his own ears, so he does his best to perk up, tries for a smile. “That’s good.”

“Damn right that’s good,” John says heartily. He slurps back the last of his coffee and pushes off from the table, heads to the hallway without a backward glance.

Matt tries to take a bite of the mush in his bowl, but it tastes like lead on his tongue. He lets the spoon drop with a clatter, flattens the palms of his hands on the table instead. He imagines the long drive back to his new place in Queens, John sitting behind the wheel, maybe making small talk, maybe just listening to that oldies station that he subjected Matt to on the entire ride to DC. He imagines John dropping him off out front of his cramped little walk-up, telling him to take care and stay out of trouble, idling at the curb until Matt enters the dimly-lit foyer. He imagines John revving the engine and pulling out into traffic, turning and watching the taillights on John’s car get further and further away until he can’t see them at all. He imagines trudging up the stairs and sitting in front of his computers and endless hours of coding and red bull and stupid games and never ever seeing John McClane again, never hearing his raspy laugh or seeing his lopsided smirk or knowing the touch of his hand.

In the past he chose that solitary life. He realizes that he can just as easily un-choose it.

He scrapes his chair back from the table.

John looks up from adjusting one of the buckles on his holster when he hears Matt enter the hall. “Don’t leave the house today,” he says, “unless you hear from me.”

“John—“

“No one knows you’re here, so you’ll be safe, but I’m gonna have a patrol car swing by a couple of times to check on you,” John says.

“Patrol car, right. John—“

“If I don’t call it doesn’t necessarily mean Hendrickson didn’t clear the clerk, so don’t fucking panic,” John says.

“So I think I’m falling in love with you.”

John pauses in the act of sliding his gun into the holster, and Matt has a brief moment of anxiety in which he realizes that he really, _really_ should have maybe waited to drop that little bombshell until John wasn’t actually armed.

John raises his head slowly. “What,” he says, “did you just say?”

Matt doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he opens his mouth and lets the words fall out in a rush. “I think I may actually be falling in love with you. No, that’s not right, ‘cause falling would imply that it’s in the process of happening, which… it’s not. I’ve fallen in love, already, and—“

“You think that’s funny, kid?”

“What? No! I think that’s about to get me _killed_ , but… but not saying it is driving me crazy, and I… originally I thought it was just me, like it was just some stupid fantasy that could never come true, because c’mon, man, it’s _you_ , you know? You’re not exactly a prime candidate for Grand Marshall at the next Pride parade, right? But then you seem to be feeling things too, and—“

“Stop.”

“I know, dude, I know, okay? It’s freaking you out, I know, it’s kind of freaking me out too, but if you think about it—“

“Stop.”

“—if we could just talk abou—“

“Fucking stop,” John rasps out.

Matt closes his mouth with a snap, watches the rapid rise and fall of John’s chest. It seems to him that they’re stuck in the hallway forever, crowded in between the grandfather clock and the side table with the little drawer where John keeps his keys and his wallet, but in reality he figures only about ten seconds goes by before John slams his gun into the holster and grabs up his jacket and then looks him in the eye.

“It’s called hero worship. Believe me, kid, it ain’t the first time,” John says. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Matt shakes his head. “No, I—“

“If you think you saw something that means I feel the same, I’m sorry. That’s on me.”

“John—“

“I’m fifty-two years old, kid, with a shitty shoulder and an even shittier attitude. I’m eight years from retirement, and I ain’t gonna let you throw your life away on a bad bet. That’s how it goes.”

“John, just—“

“Have your bag packed when I get home tonight. You’re staying someplace else.”

John doesn’t slam the door. He exits quietly, shuts the door softly behind him, but Matt winces anyway. He stands in the narrow hallway, hugs his arms around his chest and cups his elbows in his palms and stares at the closed door, hearing John’s final words seem to reverberate in the air.

He’s not sure what he expected. Belatedly, he realizes he didn’t actually think the whole thing through far enough to include John’s reaction, except in some vaguely ridiculous teen dream way that included sloppy kisses and roving hands. He showed have created a spreadsheet, mapped out all the probabilities in neat little columns.

So much for that supersmart brain.

He’s dumping the congealed mass of his cereal into the garbage when he realizes that McClane didn’t actually _deny_ anything.

 

VII

 _… he has a bruise on his neck that looks like a hickey and somebody cracks a joke about the Irish getting lucky and McClane starts to think maybe that’s not the worst idea Hershkowitz ever had._

 

John is halfway across the bridge and snagged in the usual early morning traffic when he realizes that his fingers are clenched tightly around the wheel, his shoulders hunched and stiff. He forces himself to relax his grip, flexes his fingers, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly to release the tension from his body. Repeats the process a second time. Most of the things they shoved down his throat in therapy were complete bullshit – _tell me about your feeeeeelings, Lieutenant McClane_ , blah blah fucking blah – but that stress reduction technique was practical, at least. He smirks. He oughta send Dr. Franklin a thank you card.

Feeling significantly lighter, he eases in behind an SUV piled with kids and one harried looking driver, practically idles as he stays with the sluggish flow of traffic. He tries to use the time to concentrate on his upcoming day – there’s a surveillance report to review, one p.m. meeting with the D.A. about the Romanoski case, a half dozen calls to return – but no matter what he does, his mind keeps turning back to Matt.

The kid had seemed so damned sincere.

And fuck if it hadn’t taken nearly everything in him to stop himself from grabbing the kid, shoving him against the nearest wall and sticking his tongue down his throat.

He shakes his head to drive away the image, exits the bridge and steers around the SUV to make his turn.

Hero worship, that’s all it is. Just like he told Matt. You save someone’s life a couple-three times, they tend to get dewy-eyed. Same thing happened with that woman from Holly’s office, Barbara something-or-other, the one that kept writing him letters until Holly took her aside and had a few words. And the woman from the bank back in ’98, same thing, just ‘cause he disarmed a couple of would-be robbers on his fucking lunch break. It wears off, that goopiness. He knows.

And just because this time the feeling is reciprocated, well… that don’t mean shit. It’s still gonna wear off, and then Matt’s gonna be left feeling like an idiot, and John? John’s just gonna be left alone. Best to send the kid on his way, cut all the ties and be done with it.

He’s not going to take advantage of Matthew Farrell. That’s what it comes down to.

He should have never let the kid stay with him. Should have crumpled up his phone number and tossed it in the trash the second Matt’s back was turned. Should’ve stopped fucking dreaming a long time ago.

He pull into a parking spot, makes a mental note to contact Hendrickson on his lunch break. And if there hasn’t been any movement on clearing Blondzilla and he can’t get Matt sent back to his own apartment, then Lucy’s gonna have a new roommate tonight.

That’s just the way it’s gotta be.

* * *

“Holy shit,” John says as soon as he pushes open the door. “What is it in here, minus a hundred? I can see my fucking breath.”

“And good morning to you, too, John,” Joe says.

“Yeah, good morning,” John says distractedly. He starts to shrug off his jacket on the way to his desk; thinks better of it when the frigid air hits his arms and tugs it back on instead, turning up his collar for good measure. “You know we’re supposed to be conserving energy while they work to get the power fully restored? Essential services only?”

“Air conditioning is an essential service,” Connie says. “It’s supposed to hit forty today. Do you know what that humidity does to my hair?”

John shoots her the look that makes rookies cower under their desks. The effect it has on Connie is negligible. “I’m serious, Kowalski.”

“So am I, McClane,” Connie drawls. “Just because you don’t have to worry about a fabulous ‘do anymore, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t think of us who are—“

“Not bald?” Joe says drily.

“I was going to say ‘follically enhanced’,” Connie says.

This time the look encompasses both of them. The effect is the same.

“Anyway,” Joe says, “they got another blackout scheduled in fifteen minutes. We’re just trying to build up some cold air in the joint. If it works, we won’t turn into giant sweat bubbles by ten.”

“It won’t work,” John says.

“You don’t know that,” Hershkowitz says. “Give it a fucking chance, McClane. Sure we’re a little cold now—“

“It won’t work, I’m tellin’ ya,” John insists. “You’ve had it on for what, fifteen, twenty minutes? Meanwhile when the power goes out the door keeps opening every time someone comes in here, you get the heat from the computers, you got body heat. It’s gonna dissipate.” He slouches into his chair, pulls the latest surveillance report on Mickey DeSalvo out of the file. “It won’t work. Trust me.”

“Ye of little faith,” Joe says.

* * *

It doesn’t work.

When John shrugs out of his jacket and wipes the sweat from his brow, he’s proud of himself for not saying _I told you so_. He’s pretty sure Connie picks it up telepathically anyway.

He’s midway through a meticulous list of everything DeSalvo ate for dinner on Saturday – he makes a note on the legal pad next to his arm to talk to the rookie about a little thing called unnecessary detail – when Hershkowitz slams his palms down on the desk.

“Awww McClane! You gotta flaunt it in my face like that?”

John carefully makes a final notation on the report before he puts his pen down on the blotter and lifts his eyes. “What the fuck you talking about, Hershey?”

“You, McClane. You and your goddamn hickey!” Hershkowitz brays. “It ain’t bad enough that Marla’s as big as a house and gonna drop any day and I ain’t had any in weeks, McClane, weeks! And now the Irish are getting lucky right on my fucking doorstep. It ain’t fair, I tell ya.”

John frowns, reaches up a hand to the spot on his neck that Hershkowitz is eyeing enviously. His fingertip brushes the fading bruise, and he sighs.

“Relax, Hersh,” he says. “It’s just—“

“Whoa, a hickey, McClane?” Joe says. “I haven’t had a hickey since… fuck, Cindy Sampson. Sophomore year. She was a cheerleader,” he sighs wistfully.

“It’s not—“

“If you’re getting some and I ain’t, at least you gotta share the details, McClane,” Hershkowitz complains. “So spill!”

“Will you fucking shut up and listen?” John says loudly. “It’s—“

“Awww, I think it’s sweet,” Connie says. She presses a manicured hand to her breast dramatically. “Tell me it was the Farrell kid and I can die a happy woman.”

John has half risen from his chair, a final _It’s not a fucking hickey_ ready to bellow from his lips, when Connie’s words register in his brain. He sinks back into the chair instead, and it takes a couple of tries before he’s finally able to force a simple “What?” out of his suddenly dry throat.

Connie shakes her head, sends curls flying. “You think we didn’t know? Jesus Christ, John, he’s been mooning over you ever since the fourth.”

“Calling every three days and then hanging up,” Joe adds.

“And that meeting with the mayor before the press conference?” Hershkowitz adds. “Jesus, McClane, the way you looked at him, I thought you were maybe gonna hump his leg.”

“See, we’re _detectives_ , John,” Joe says smugly. He lowers his voice, leans forward conspiratorially. “We kinda figured it out.”

John flops back in the chair, closes his eyes. So much for discretion. “It’s not what you think,” he says.

“Oh, okay,” Joe says.

“It’s not a hickey,” John says gruffly. He opens his eyes, pushes away from the desk. “I had an accident with a screwdriver.” When Hersh and Joe exchange glances, John sighs. “It’s not a fucking hickey, all right?”

“Sure, McClane,” Joe says.

Hershkowitz shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

“You know what? Fuck you,” John says. He grabs up a file from his desk, heads toward the door. “Some of us have work to do.”

He plans to head up to cyber-crime, maybe do a little innocent flirting with the redhead to take his mind off… things. But he finds himself detouring to the bathroom instead, staring at himself in the mirror. In his mind’s eye he’s still thirty… a thirty with a distinct lack of hair, but still young and hardy. Now he catalogues every wrinkle, every scar, and scowls at his reflection. Now his back hurts when he wakes up after falling asleep on the sofa, and his knees crack when he has to get up from the floor, which also takes him a lot longer than it used to. Now he’s old, and it happened when he wasn’t even fucking looking.

Too old for some motormouth punk with a bad haircut, that’s for sure.

He turns his back on his reflection and heads to the wall of urinals, unzips and tries to think of nothing at all. When the door opens, he glances casually over his shoulder… then does a double-take.

“Jeeeeezus, Kowalksi, this is the fuckin’ mens room!”

“Ya think I ain’t seen it before?” Connie says.

John snorts, shakes his head and turns back to business. “Whatever turns your crank, Kowalski,” he says. He sees Connie roll her eyes and cross her arms at her chest out of the corner of his eye.

“So,” she says after a moment, “it’s not a hickey.”

“What I fucking said,” John says.

Connie is silent for another moment, then she leans against the wall. “Fine. But you listen to me, McClane—“

“Maybe I can listen to you later when my dick isn’t hangin’ outta my pants, how about that?”

“Maybe you can shake off and tuck yourself in and listen to me now,” Connie says.

John first instinct is to outwait her, but he realizes he’d feel pretty fucking stupid standing in the middle of the mens room with his dick waving in the wind. He tucks and zips, but he scowls at her while he’s doing it. “Happy?” he asks.

“Ecstatic,” Connie drawls. She pushes off from the wall, paces to the middle of the room. “Now you? Listen. You don’t get many chances at love in this life—“

“I never said I fucking love—“

“You don’t get many chances at love,” Connie repeats loudly. “Now you got a thing for that kid, a blind man can see it. He’s got a thing for you. So what’s your problem?”

“Who says I got a thing?” John balks. When Connie just looks at him, he wilts almost as fast as the damn rookies. He stalks away, studies the scuffed tiles. “Jesus, Connie, he’s just a kid who’s got his head in the fucking clouds. To him, I’m like one of those actions figures he loves so fucking much. And it won’t take long before he figures out that I don’t wear a damn cape and I can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

“Ohhhh, okay,” Connie says with a nod. “So you’re scared. Geez, John, you should’ve just said so.”

John’s head whips up. “What?”

Connie shrugs. “You’re scared. It just means you’re human, you know. Like the rest of us schlubs that also can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

“I’m not… I’m not fucking scared,” John grits out. “I’m just not gonna take advantage of—“

“Who says you’re takin’ advantage?” Connie drawls. “Maybe some of it is hero worship. So what? He _likes_ you, McClane. You like him. Maybe nothing will come of it. Maybe when he finds out that your idea of a fun Saturday night is pizza delivery and a game on the tube he’ll bolt for the door. But don’t try to sell me this bullshit about not wanting to take advantage, all right, ‘cause I ain’t buyin’.”

“Connie—“

“You got a chance here, John. A rare opportunity. You can take it, or you can go back to eating and sleeping alone. Personally, I always thought you had bigger balls than that.” She pulls the door open, glances over her shoulder and flicks her eyes briefly down to his crotch. She smirks. “And hey, now I got the proof, too.”

In the silence after the door bangs shut behind her, John realizes that his mouth is open. He shuts it with a snap, strides toward the sink and slams the water on, washes his hands and then cups some cold water in his palms to splash it on his face. He stands and arches an eyebrow at his dripping reflection.

Okay, so maybe he’s got wrinkles. Every one of them means something. Some good things, some bad things, but all of them represent a life lived fully. Nothing wrong with that. He straightens, eyes what he can see of his body in the mirror. Battered and bruised, sure, but _fit_ – he still jogs a couple times a week, works out with the weights, and it was _him_ who took down that sexy asian chick even with all her judo chopping shit.

He’s not _that_ old.

And sure, maybe the kid doesn’t know what he’s getting in to; thinks life with John McClane is a non-stop adrenaline rush. Maybe when the sheen wears off Matt will set a new land speed record running for the door, and John will be left alone again, eating take-out on his lumpy sofa.

Maybe that’s a chance he has to take.

John cocks his head, studies the smudged bruise on his neck. If he squints, it really does kind of look like a hickey.

Maybe that’s not the worst idea Hershkowitz has ever had.

John stops back into the office only long enough to grab his keys before he heads out the door.

 

VIII

 _… someone jumps you in the hallway and puts his tongue in your mouth._

 

Over the course of the morning Matt figures that he stands in the doorway of the spare room and stares at his clothes approximately fourteen times. He doesn’t make a move to put them in his duffle bag.

He sits in the kitchen chair in front of his computer, messes up about twenty lines of code before he admits that his heart isn’t in it and shuts the whole thing down. He doesn’t unplug any cables.

He might not be as good or as smart as he thought, but he _is_ stubborn.

When he hears the key in the lock, much earlier than expected, he has a brief moment of panic. He stands abruptly and stares anxiously around the living room, like maybe if he just hides behind the old easy chair or tucks in behind the entertainment stand John will forget he’s even there. Because seriously, seriously, what was he thinking? He’s about to _defy_ John McClane. The last guy that didn’t do what John wanted ended up splayed on a car with a bullet in his heart.

He smoothes suddenly damp palms on his jeans, straightens his back. He’s not going down without a… well, not a fight, but at least a lot of words. Words he can do.

He meets John in the hallway. John is already hanging his jacket on the hook, half-turned away, his brow furrowed in thought, and Matt sucks in a breath at the sight of him – T-shirt stretched taut over that solid chest, muscular arms and faded jeans and scuffed boots, every part of him buff and brawny and intimidating as all hell. But Matt knows how protective those arms can be. When John’s head comes up and those sharp green eyes meet his, Matt amends his earlier thought. He’s definitely not giving this up without a _fight_.

He meets John eyes steadily, folds his arms defiantly over his chest. “My bags aren’t packed.”

John lifts a brow, lets his keys drop onto the side table. Says nothing.

Matt finds himself wilting under the weight of that gaze. He forces himself to stand straighter. “Because see, John, you don’t get to decide what I do.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirks. “It’s my house.”

Matt sighs, lets his shoulders droop, his arms drop away from his chest. Damn McClane and his logic. “Okay,” he says, “technically you can kick me out, true. But here’s the thing, John—“

“Ohhh,” John drawls, “there’s a thing.”

Matt huffs out a breath. “You,” he says sharply, “don’t get to tell me that what I’m feeling isn’t real. It’s REAL, John. And okay, sure, you’re like a superhero or something—“

“I ain’t no superhero, kid.”

“—but I happen to LIKE superheroes. Even ones that get cranky in the morning and never fucking put the lid back on the toothpaste. Seriously, I’ve only been here like four days and already there’s this crust on the toothpaste, it’s disgusting, man. And, like, you put the empty orange juice container back in the fridge and only have corn flakes in the cupboard and not something that’s actually _good_ like Count Chocula. And I especially like the ones that actually listen to me and care about me even if they do drive me absolutely nuts, I mean seriously ready for the loony bin crazy, McClane, when they try to decide what’s best for me like I’m some kind of _kid_.”

“I told you, _Matthew_ ,” John says pointedly, “I’m not Superman. And you’re just gonna end up disappointed that life with me isn’t exactly a non-stop issue of Marvel comics—“

“DC.”

John blinks. “What?”

“Superman is DC. Marvel is Spiderman.” Matt waves a hand in the air. “Not the point, I know. Just a pet peeve. Go on. You’re not Superman, etcetera…”

“You taking any of this seriously, kid?”

“McClane, this is as serious as I _get_. We could have something great here and you’re just willing to let it slip away because you’re… I don’t know, you’re flipping out over nothing and—“

“It’s not nothing, kid. Matt,” John corrects himself. He ducks his head, takes a half-step forward and slants Matt a look that he can’t read. “You _are_ a kid to me, Matthew. You’ll always be a kid to me.” He sighs. “I’m an old man.”

“You’re more vital than anyone I’ve ever known,” Matt counters quickly.

“I’ve got kids your age.”

“Makes it easier for me to bond with them,” Matt says. “We’ll have a lot in common. And hey, Lucy already likes me.”

“You don’t—“ John takes another step, stops and shakes his head. “I’m worried that you don’t know what you’re in for,” he says. Matt opens his mouth, but he holds up a hand before Matt can speak. “Maybe I don’t have the right to make that call—“

“No maybe about it.”

“—but it’s still the way I feel. I’m old and I’m set in my ways and I have it on good authority that I’m pretty much an asshole. I ain’t easy to live with and that’s not gonna change. You’re young and you got your whole fucking life ahead of you, and—“

“And it’s _my_ call how I live it,” Matt says quietly. He spreads his arms wide. “Hey, I got no guarantees over here, John. But. But I know that I want to be with you.”

John’s final step takes him into Matt’s space, and Matt doesn’t even realize that he’s been leaning forward until John raises an index finger and pushes gently against his chest and he sways backward, his head hitting the wall with a thump.

“Matt.”

“Ow,” Matt says.

John’s lips turn up then, and when he smiles everything about him changes. The harsh lines on his face soften, his eyes actually twinkle even though Matt knows he’d totally deny it. One big hand comes up, hesitates for a second and then brushes softly through his hair, and Matt has to fight not to close his eyes and fucking _purr _.__

“You’re sure?” John asks, voice hushed and raw.

“Jesus, McClane, I’m sure, I’ve told you a hundred times, why are you still talking? Just shut the fuck up and kiss me, I feel like I’ve been waiting forever over here and--”

And it’s nothing like Matt imagined. There are no roving hands, no tongues fighting for dominance. Just the cool wall at his back and the warm solid weight of John pressing against him, one large hand resting lightly on his waist. Just soft lips pressing lightly against his, undemanding. Matt fists his hand in John’s shirt, does his best to tug him closer, is almost embarrassed to find himself practically whimpering when John hushes him and insists on taking it slow. When John’s tongue finally licks against his bottom lip, Matt sighs and opens beneath him, and then… then it’s still nothing like he imagined. It’s better.

 

Epilogue

The best thing about being a cop – especially a cop with thirty years on the force and a reputation for going balls out to get shit done – is the good will it entails with the brass. John goes to see Scalvino on a Friday afternoon, and within fifteen minutes he’s worked out a deal for four weeks of paid leave time. Scalvino shakes his head as he signs the paperwork, no doubt remembering the fight John put up just to get back to desk work instead of taking the leave he should have taken when he got shot. John gathers up his paperwork for reassignment, smirks when Joe razzes him and when Hershey looks at him in wonder, and the smirk becomes an honest-to-god grin when Connie actually fucking kisses his cheek. The grin lasts all the way across the bridge and down the streets of the Brooklyn suburb that he calls home, all the way to Matt’s chair. He wraps his arms around Matt from behind, nuzzles his chin against that ridiculous hippie hair before ducking his head to plant a kiss on Matt’s neck. Matt helpfully tips his head to give him better access, eyes him through his bangs.

“How did it go?” Matt asks.

“Come to bed,” John says, stands and tugs on Matt’s sleeve and the grin gets wider when Matt nearly trips over a power cord in his eagerness to rise. Then Matt’s hands are pulling at this shirt, fingers tripping across taut stomach muscles, and John sucks in a breath and wraps his hand around the nape of Matt’s neck and pulls him in, tastes his lips and breathes in the cotton warm scent of him and clutches tighter, never wants to let go.

Maybe this thing between them is going to work out fine, after all.


End file.
